a woman great and terrible
by cameron elliot
Summary: She leaps over cars, reads minds, and has news about Cassie. Spoilers for S1 Route 666 and Provenance. SamSarah DeanOFC. AU since All Hell Breaks Loose.
1. this child i would destroy

They're driving on an almost familiar highway, its pavement dusty and isolated among tobacco fields and houses set so far back from the road that the color isn't always easily distinguishable. This, Sam thinks, is more home than any of the other rooms he's known, more, even, than his apartment with Jess, and he wonders just a little why – and when – his mind changed about things like that. Maybe it was kissing Sarah (a memory not so far off, really, though months have passed); maybe it was losing Dad. No matter the impetus (a word he's not sure Dean knows), this dirty road and this familiar car, with his brother snoring against the window, they are home. They are, he thinks, probably what he'll spend the rest of his life doing – and that brings unbidden the dangerous and maddening thought _what's left of it, anyway_. Whether he dies on a job or is roped into the demon's bullshit army, the last of his life will be spent with Dean and this Impala.

He only thinks these circling thoughts when Dean is asleep or out seducing some new round of women. Even so, Dean sees too much of Sam's head exposing itself in his words, and sometimes Sam wants to kick Dean for knowing him so well, so thoroughly. It's part of being a brother, he guesses.

Soon he cannot think his through his spirals any more, because there is a woman in a dark dress in front of him that he's sure wasn't there before and maybe if he slams on the brakes he won't hit her but she is too close and he braces himself for an impact that doesn't come where he expects it to. He doesn't hit her; she jumps onto the hood, rolls over the top, and lands on her feet just a yard from where the car's back bumper finally comes to a stop. Dean is roughly awake, still disoriented, but even more so when he realizes they're not moving but they're not at a motel yet.

"What the – ?" There is a little snort to accompany the words, and Sam would laugh except right now he's just a little more preoccupied with the girl who evaded the car coming towards her. "Dude, Sammy, where are you going?" The car door slams. "Sam! Sa – oh."

She is much shorter than Sam's gargantuan 6'3" but with none of the sort of terror that usually accompanies people who stare him down. She lifts her eyes resolutely to his and he thinks that for just a moment she gets even taller – and even more intimidating. Which is weird, he thinks to himself, and then he realizes she just _jumped over_ his _car_ without breaking a sweat. And she's in a _skirt_.

One eyebrow is lifted minutely more than the other, and her startling blue eyes seem to be reading him easily. The sensual curve of her hip would be distracting if his brain wasn't repeating "Sarah, Sarah, Sarah" in an effort to stay focused.

"Hey, are you okay?" he asks, and even though it sounds stupid in his head and even more so in the air, it's kind of okay because she just smiles wryly and inclines her head. "You're not hurt?"

"No." The word is quiet and yet it echoes, rolling over Sam and over the car and over the fields and over the house in the far distance. There is an eerie sort of force behind it, and it is the first time he thinks maybe she's not as normal as he wishes.

Somewhere behind him a gun cocks. Dean is behind him, aiming at the girl. She laughs, a clear, ringing sound, and shakes her head as if he is just a child.

"Dean Winchester, you could no more shoot me than you could shoot your own brother." Sam can sense rather than see the face his brother makes, defiant and defeated at the same time. The woman smirks, and for a moment Sam wonders how she knows their names. "Oh, don't be stupid, Sam. Ellen told me." She smirks. "I just confirmed them by scanning your thoughts." Sam has a sneaking suspicion Dean has lifted the gun even more definitively. The woman who can read minds takes small, deliberate steps towards the Impala and towards Dean, and fixes him with the same unafraid stare she showed to Sam. "Dean, there's been news about Cassie."


	2. dream up, dream up, let me fill your cup

Sam turns just as the strange woman delivers whatever news she has in a voice too soft for him to hear. Dean doesn't seem to fall apart at first glance, but he lowers – then drops – the gun as if he doesn't know why he has it any more and that's enough for Sam to begin to worry. He's not even engaged enough to see the woman catch it. Then Dean's eyes shutter and harden, and Sam knows with a terrible, absolute twist to the gut that yes, Cassie is gone for good. The woman in the dark dress is still speaking, but Dean looks down at the ground and sets his jaw.

"I don't want to hear the details." She stops abruptly and takes a step back, laying the gun on the Impala trunk. Sam doesn't need to be psychic to feel the anger streaming from his brother. Dean turns, grabs the gun, and Sam's throat closes because what if Dean can't handle it and kills himself right here and he's not sure he can handle losing someone else not in such a short time. But Dean just kicks the safety in and slides into the driver's seat. "Sam, you coming?" he asks before slamming the door closed. Sam heads towards the car, pausing momentarily as the mind reading woman puts a hand on his shoulder.

"My name is Marie Ambrose," she says, and flicks a business card seemingly out of thin air. "Call me when you've checked my story with Ellen." She saunters off and away, through the gravel driveway to that house way in the corner, towards a red convertible he's sure he didn't see before. She gets in smoothly, the top down, and puts sunglasses on her face and a scarf over her hair to protect it from the dust. Then she waits for Sam to get in the car before starting up the Miata and pulling out behind their black Impala. It seems this woman is determined to follow them to their next destination. Dean stomps on the pedal. She's right there behind him. Sam pulls out his phone; it's time to call Ellen.

It's been three days since Marie gave Dean his news. Three days of mostly wasted gas, the black Impala that Sam calls home meandering along deserted roads with no apparent purpose, with the addition of a red Miata following. Marie's car of choice putt putt putters over the country, keeping enough distance behind that the haggard, erratic Dean feels more reassured than pressured. Sam and Marie make him stop in shabby motels, get rooms next to each other, and wait for Dean to recover.

The wait is long and tedious. Sam and Marie sit in the Miata outside the motel with the top down, watching the sun set and letting the wind gust their hair while Dean watches the television inside without seeing. She hears from Sam's lips about Cassie, and about Jess, and about Sarah, and then about their father and their mother. With a friendly, familiar hand, she pats him on the shoulder and snuggles under his arm like a sister.

Marie and Sam take turns sitting watch in the dark, each with one gun and one silver knife. They salt every opening of every room just in case. The weapons and salt make the nonfunctioning part of Dean's brain think they're watching for something out there, something worth hunting, but the truth is that each of them fear for the oldest, for the broken. Marie watches as he tosses in the night, caught in the guilt that consumes him every night in nightmares. Her gut clenches and nostrils flare as she resists touching his sweat-slicked brow. She can offer no comfort; nothing she gives him will be enough to remove the resentment he has for the messenger. She knows it. She knows she can do nothing for him.

Sam can touch him, but only when Dean is asleep. Every waking moment, Dean resists all effort made to calm him. He drinks coffee after cup of coffee, hot and black and strong, with none of that pansy sip-top bull like Sam will succumb to. Sam and Marie just wait. And all this time, she hides her secret.

When Dean pulls over for no reason, Marie's sharp sense of worry spikes. She eases the little red car onto the shoulder behind him and walks slowly, quietly towards the driver's side of the Impala to see Dean breaking against the steering wheel. With calm blue eyes, masking her empathetic pain and fear, she jerks her head at Sam, indicating he should get out of the car. She throws him the keys to the Miata.

"Don't crash him," she says, climbing into the Impala, shifting Dean out of the way so that he inadvertently folds into her, weeping roughly and silently into her shirt. She sighs, allowing the soft of her breast and the touch of her gun-roughened right hand on his temple to imitate the motherly touch he doesn't remember. 'This is wrong, this is wrong, this is wrong,' her mind screams, but she cares too much about him to stop.

She starts up the car and heads for the familiar mountains of Appalachia. The secret must be revealed.

"I'll never tell a soul," she whispers, and accelerates.


	3. put your flaming torches under me

"Everyone has a weakness", she says to them, huddling into herself on one side of the booth as the boys sprawl in the opposite one. Dean lifts the beer bottle twice, staring at something in the distance, before realizing it's empty. Marie traces the lip of her water glass nervously, and Sam watches her long fingers shake. "Everyone has a… a secret," she continues. "Over the past few weeks, I've heard some of your secrets, some of the things very few people know, and I've wanted so much to tell you mine… but, Dean, with all due respect, I had to wait until you… well, until I was sure you were ready." She takes a deep breath and looks around the darkened pub before looking back to meet Sam's eyes with intense, necessary surety. She shifts to cross her legs and then continues, voice calmer than her fingers. "I was not just sent like a drone to give you bad news and wait for you to get better, to report back your progress to Missouri or to Ellen. I'm here because if this demon is going to be defeated, as good at your job as you boys are, you're going to need my help." She looks from one brother to another, trying not to be injured by Dean's blank, impassive stare. "Sam, Dean, I'm not just psychic. And I'm not a parlor magician, either, though the tricks I know are great for impromptu performances. I'm… oh, God, I hate this word. In layman's terms, the most simple and misleading of relatable names – I'm a witch."

Neither man reacts much. Dean scoffs and drinks out of Sam's half-full beer before rising silently, presumably to go to the bathroom. Sam lifts his eyebrows and opens his hands. He gives a nonchalant, purely Sam frown and says "So what?" She smiles, opens her hands in front of her face as she shrugs and then folds them in front of her on the table.

"So there you go. That's the _big_ _secret_." She takes a sip of her lemon water.

"Is that why you won't have a beer?" She laughs a little as the tension breaks under Sam's question. She shakes her head, glad to be back in their normal relationship, an easy friendship.

"No, actually – I don't like beer. I'm very old fashioned and prefer wine." She smiles softly and looks away for just a moment.

Sam yells something and her vision goes black.

_Shouting. Someone is shouting. I can hear him, but I can't see him, hear him calling a name. My name? My name isn't Dean. Something about not being able to walk away from this. From me? About being a monster. I'm not a monster. I'm a healer. I save people. Don't group me with the monsters, please. I'm not one of them. I'll never be one of them. They're sick. They're evil. I'm fighting the monsters, Dean. Dean, I'm not a monster. I'm not a monster. I'm not a monster. I'm not a monster. I'm not a… I'm not… I'm …_

"She saved Jo's life once, Dean! She lived with Missouri! Just because she's not normal doesn't mean she's evil! Jesus, Dean, I'm not normal either! _You're_ going to be the one to get us killed! And in the middle of a bar?"

"I was doing my job, Sam. That's what I do. The family business, remember? Now you know I'm back and ready for action, ready for the next job."

"You're too calm about this, Dean. You can't just kill the woman who held you while you cried about Cassie. You think I don't know how that feels? How it feels to lose the woman you love? Have you forgotten about Jess so easily? I would have killed to have Marie here when I was dealing with Jess. But I had you. And that was it. You can't shoot in cold blood someone who has had countless opportunities to kill you if she meant you harm and DIDN'T TAKE THEM. She's not going to hurt you!" There is steel in Dean's voice; Marie can hear him from her place at his feet, crumpled in the dirt.

"She killed me."


	4. distance must come between us

The energy wave stops the bullet in its tracks. Dean's eyes are wide, scared, more vulnerable than Sam's seen them in a long while, because Marie is completely unharmed but for a small bruise where the bullet dropped on her forearm and the knot Dean gave her when he knocked her out, and she's starting to wake up. First a flutter of the lashes, then lazy, exhausted blinking, her eyes focusing on random points around her. Sam rushes to her side, pushing Dean back a few steps, and lifts her head, cradling her body close to his solid warmth. He glares back at Dean, nostrils flaring, as Dean drops the gun out of shock.

"She's too weak to do much," Sam says. "Are you satisfied now?" Dean says nothing. "Are you willing to at least be civil, then?" Dean nods wordlessly. "Good. Get her in the car and drive her to the motel. I don't care which car you take, but she'll either have to lean back in the seat or lay with her head on your leg. Her head has to stay elevated, do you hear me? And you had better get used to being her chauffeur because you're watching her until she's better _just like she did for you._" Dean sets his jaw and crosses over Marie's body before squatting to lift her in his arms. He moves resolutely towards the Miata, and his eyes are glass. Marie tilts her head against his arm and looks up at him.

"Dean," she whispers, and smiles a little. "I knew you'd save me." She fades out of consciousness again and he is left staring at the little smile on her face, the one of surety and of trust.

Sam is behind them, ready to open the Miata's little red door, when Dean changes his mind and changes his path, heading for the Impala. If he's going to watch over her, he had better do it right.

He arranges her in the front seat with more care than he's shown anything in a month or more, her head pillowed softly on his thigh and her knees tucked up near her chest. Sam grabs the blanket out of Marie's car and arranges it over her, and Dean puts in a tape of something other than mullet rock, though not mellow enough to be really called pop. He looks up at Sam and the younger man can see how sick Dean really feels, that he might have killed someone who trusts him so implicitly, who never suspected him of any ill will. The Impala door closes, Marie shifts and sighs, and Dean starts up the car. Her breath is hot against his jeans, a constant reminder of the life he almost wasted.

He's already gone by the time she wakes up, under the covers but still in her clothes. Sam is sitting in a chair beside her bed, head bowed and hands folded. She has the presence of mind to wait until he whispers an 'amen' to shift in the bed, trying to sit up.

"Hey, hey, hold on," he says, unfolding his lanky frame to help her. "You're still out of sorts from that energy blast." She lets him help her and runs her hands fruitlessly through her hair. "Is there anything I can get you?" She nods.

"Water," she croaks, "a hairbrush, and some toothpaste." He grins and nods, bringing first the water, then a toothbrush, toothpaste, and a little bowl to spit in, finally laying the hairbrush on her lap. "You are a lifesaver, Sam," she sighs, leaning back against the pillows. He just grins and shakes his head.

"No, that would be you, witch." She smiles, her eyes closed, because his voice makes the term sound like an endearment. "Are you hungry? Your blood sugar must be low – Dean's supposed to be back soon with apple juice, but for now I have some trail mix with M&Ms, raisins, and peanuts." He offers up the bag and she takes a handful before patting his baby-smooth cheek with her free hand.

"Well, aren't you just the smartest! I thought you were pre-law, not pre-med." He blushes and smiles bashfully.

"Jess was pre-med," he says softly, and her delicate hand drops to rest on top of his big one, though it can't cover it.

"You know where we should go next?" she asks after a long moment, a conspiratorial smile gracing her face. He shakes his head.

"Where?"

"To New York. I want to meet Sarah." He grins and drops his head, meaning to respond, but just then Dean kicks the door to the adjacent room open, hollering.

"Okay, I've got apple juice for Sleeping Beauty, three pints of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream, which I maintain is chick food, and three Hungry Man dinners because I just had to balance things out. So there's dinner, if the princess ever even wakes – oh. Hello." His ramble stops short as he comes through the pass-through door to see Marie sitting up, still blinking the exhaustion out of her eyes. She smiles softly and swallows the trail mix in her mouth.

"Hi, Dean."


	5. i thought of you and where you'd gone

Dean is motionless in the doorway, eyes fixed on Marie. He called her Sleeping Beauty as a joke, and to be honest he really did mean it as a joke, but seeing her now, her hair combed but her eyes still sleepy, the beauty shines through in a way he never wanted it to, in a way he never wanted to admit could happen. He holds up the bottle of apple juice without looking away from her.

"Sam. Go get some ice." Sam hears the slight, almost perfectly hidden tremor in Dean's usually strong voice and obeys without question, leaving the two alone in hopes that they'll work something out. Marie keeps her gaze locked on Dean as he crosses to the chair beside her bed and sits down.

"Are you feeling better?" Whiskey-rough, coffee-black, endlessly deep, his voice envelops her with a kind of hot, uncomfortable purpose.

"I'm still tired."

"Do you remember what happened?"

"I remember." His expression is guarded, even more than it has been before.

"Are you angry?"

"I don't blame you." She didn't answer his question, but he accepts the answer anyway because sometimes you just have to let the question go unanswered or you'll drive yourself insane. As he watches her eyes closely for any flicker of anger, he sees something in her he hasn't wanted to see before. She is not as passive as he once imagined; in fact, she is not passive at all. There is something innately feral in the back of her eyes, something so wild that Dean shifts in his seat uncomfortably. Her heart, though, is the more prominent, warm and caring and ultimately welcoming of whatever he has to give. No malice. No anger. She really doesn't blame him.

"I didn't want to believe you," he says. She nods.

"I know. You wanted it to be my fault."

"Yes." Sam returns just then with the ice and they are still staring at one another, forming a tenuous bond of civility.

"I won't push you again," she says finally. "I know you want to fight this demon. I will help you kill it and then I will leave. I will help you and then I will go home."

"I want to know what happened to her," he says, ignoring her, and Sam looks back and forth between Marie and Dean with a sort of panicked expression that neither one of them acknowledges.

"Juice first," he interjects, and Dean nods, his eyes never leaving Marie's face, even though Marie breaks the contact to look at Sam. Sam pours and hands the juice around to each of them, and as Dean sips his, Marie can see the way he hides his cringe at the sweetness. A few sips into her own ugly plastic cup she clears her throat and begins, unable to keep it back any longer.

"Missouri woke up in the middle of the night three months ago with the first premonition she'd had since you boys left Lawrence the second time – after saving Jenny, remember, and seeing your mom. She said she'd seen another death, another death brought on by that same demon. Said it had the same _modus operandi_ but also that same energy footprint, good and true evil. Except this time there wasn't a man to see her body pinned to the ceiling, wasn't anybody, really, except her. Except Missouri. And she couldn't for the life of her figure out why it had been sent her way. 'It felt like that demon wanted me and only me to see it,' she told me. Like the two of us – because of course the demon knows I work with Missouri – were the only ones he wanted to see it.

"We started looking for fires all over the country. I set up a computer search – I'm about as geeky with a computer as Sam – and then tried to sense the element's activity, but I've never been as good at the scrying part of this witch thing as I have the healing part. Missouri did her routine trances, usually with something from your old house, just because it was one of the first. Sure enough, not but a few days later we caught wind of a fire up in Ohio and we both knew that was her. And just as soon as we got there Missouri knew you'd been there too. Didn't take much digging to figure out why. With her working at the paper and all the deaths you boys had tried to solve – well, we could feel the darkness and Missouri could feel Sam's presence in some of the buildings. The kind of prints she can pick up – I hope to someday be half as good at it as she is. Still, all told it took both of us scrying to find the connection between you and Cassie, and all the time we were hoping. But…"

"But he killed her because I loved her." Dean's voice is wet with the tears he's holding back, and Marie nods. Her tears are unchecked.

"I'm so sorry, Dean. We wanted to save her."

"Oh, Marie," Sam croaks out, unafraid to cry, and sits next to her on the bed, pulling her into a hug. "You – oh, Marie, don't you cry too. It wasn't your fault. You couldn't have stopped it." She laughs a little, ruefully, and shifts tighter under his arm while Dean looks around in that helpless, unfortunate way he doesn't want to admit he has and rubs the back of his neck.

"What a sight we must make," he says callously. "I have to leave." She closes her eyes, wets her lips, grabs his arm and squeezes once before letting him go. There's a look thrown over his shoulder as his arm slides out of her grip, one of fear and pain and disgust and implicit, unintended, unconditional trust.

"I'm not even sure he'll be back tonight," Sam says, tucking Marie back into the sheets. She smiles softly and yawns, drinking what's left of Dean's juice before closing her eyes again, still exhausted.

"Oh, he will," she says confidently, and is asleep before Sam has left the room.


	6. born in the sign of water

In a queer parallel, Sam isn't there when she wakes but Dean is staring at her intently, green eyes focused on her softly sleeping face. She smiles a little at him, shifts to a more comfortable position, flexes her fingers.

"You still don't like me," she states calmly. He shakes his head.

"Nope." She smiles and rolls over, her back towards him.

"That's okay. As long as you don't try to shoot me again, you don't have to like me. I won't blame you." He nods and runs his tongue over his teeth. He doesn't have to say anything.

When Sam comes in the door, laden with coffee, tea, and a newspaper, Dean and Marie are on separate beds watching reruns of I Love Lucy and not looking at each other.

"I've got a job for us," Sam says, passing out the drinks. "There have been a few deaths in a lake in North Carolina – stuff that isn't usual for an offshoot of an urban metropolis, like this one is. Fish are dying and reeds are growing in odd places, and nobody can understand why."

"Dude," Dean says skeptically. "How did you even figure this out? You were getting _coffee_, for God's sake. Did somebody just wave you over and say 'Oh my god, you're so hot, and by the way I've got a hunt for you'?" Sam grins.

"Actually, kind of, yeah. Except there wasn't any 'Oh my god, you're so hot.' I met a girl in the shop who was really upset about a friend being too close to a drowning for her comfort. So I was talking to Sharisse, and I could tell she was holding something back, and so I asked. She thinks it's a kelpie, honestly." Dean lifts an eyebrow.

"What the hell is a kelpie?" Marie and Sam unintentionally ignore him.

"Christ, a dangerous kelpie in _North America_? They never come here deliberately." Sam nods.

"It looks like it." Marie whistles, running her hands through her hair before sliding out of the bed.

"Damn it. We had better get started then. Where is it?"

"The city is called Charlotte – oh, hell, it's big. But the kelpie is in a lake north of the city, so… Lake Norman? Marie, are you okay?" She nods.

"I used to live in Charlotte – Lake Norman is manmade. Where the hell would a kelpie come from?" Dean opts not to mention Marie's exponentially rising use of profanity, instead repeating his question from earlier.

"Hey, earth to Sammy. What the _hell_ is a kelpie?" he interjects roughly. Marie turns to him.

"Kelpies are water horses who lure people into mostly harmless lakes until they drown. They're found in natural lakes – mostly in Great Britain and Ireland, though there have been a few mainland Europe reports here and there, and one other North American one that I've heard. The only way a kelpie could have gotten into Lake Norman is if it were bridled and brought by an incredibly intelligent human or a Fainean." Sam furrows his brow.

"Kelpies I've heard of, but Faineans?" Marie nods, grinning a little.

"You boys haven't had much relationship with the fey folk, have you?" Dean looks at Marie like she's sprouting feet out of her ears.

"You've got to be joking." She shakes her head.

"Dean, just because neither you nor John nor Ellen have ever interacted with an entity does not mean said entity does not exist. Some people are more susceptible to faerie interaction – and I'm the witch, so they tend to flock to me. A Fainean is one such faerie – she lures men into the lakes. The kelpie is her steed, and out of the water they appear just as if they're a regular woman and horse – that way they can move about without being detected. I knew one growing up – I was the only one out of our entire group of friends who knew exactly what she was. Her name was Rose."

"Do you think it's her, though?" Marie shakes her head at Sam's question.

"She's one of the few Faineans – and Meteor was one of the few kelpies – I've ever heard of who was completely harmless, even if her relationships were many and her personal heartbreaks few. No, this one's not my Rose, not if people are dying." Sam purses his lips, Dean rolls his eyes, and Marie slips into the bathroom. "Let me take a shower and we'll be out of here in no time. If you guys follow me, I can even get us to Lake Norman the short way. I mean, we're only in Brevard, so it shouldn't take more than two hours."

"Sounds fine," Sam calls out, and Dean lets out a sigh when the water starts to run.

"I don't like having a girl on the job, Sam," Dean says bluntly.

"Tough. I don't think we're going to be able to get rid of her – not even if I wanted to."


	7. waiting on some beautiful boy

They follow the little red car and Marie's matching red scarf until the lake is clearly visible between buildings touting everything from eye surgery to sushi to karaoke. All the hotels are either ridiculously expensive or too far from the lake, so Sam is rather curious to find out what she's doing as she drives directly to a lake community and hunts the houses for one that is empty – and, it turns out, one with which she is quite familiar. With a swift, confident step, she unlocks the door with one of the many keys on her ring and disarms the system deftly. Sam and Dean try bravely to keep their eyes from wandering around the expansive house, Sam more so than Dean, who is also busy trying to maintain his sneer of indifference. Marie grins at them, locks the front door again, and opens the drapes to the deck.

"Welcome, gentlemen, to Rose's lake house." They look out over the boat dock to the lake and Marie smiles. Dean just scoffs and throws his stuff on the leather sofa.

"It's not that great," he says, maintaining his gruff cover. Marie smiles ruefully and drops her eyes.

"Okay," she whispers to herself before lifting her eyes again. "I'm going to change clothes and find the keys to the boat. The kelpie will try to get me first, since women seem to be the target. This may mean we're in luck and there isn't a Fainean out there, but don't count on it. I'll be bait, anyway." Sam looks dubious.

"I'm not sure you should," he says. "I don't want to put you in danger." Marie is already halfway up the stairs, her ever-swinging black dress swirling like clouds around her legs.

"Don't worry, Sam. I can handle it. I used to ride Meteor all the time, on land and in water. Besides – I have a human bridle." She gives a devious grin and bounds up the stairs. Sam's face tightens and he sits next to Dean. "You're still kind of a dick, you know that?" he says after a while. "You haven't changed towards her one bit." Dean shakes his head and lifts his boots to the coffee table.

"Nope. I don't plan to, either. I don't have to like her as much as you do. I don't have to like her at all, actually." Sam sighs.

"Okay, fine. If that's what you want, that's fine. Just… for me, Dean, be civil." Dean looks at Sam unhappily and turns on the television without answering.

By the time they're out on the water, Dean has been briefed on how to kill kelpies, Sam is momentarily enjoying the wind in his hair, and Marie is dancing to pop music as she steers the boat in the sun.

"Look for bizarre clumps of reeds and algae growing in fingers in towards the center of the lake," she shouts to the boys. "We're in the range of the killings now." Sam nods and leans out over the side of the boat, eyes scrutinizing the horizon. Marie smiles as she looks back at him, wishing ruefully it were just another day on the lovely lake.

A hissing sort of scream penetrates her ears as the Fainean rises unnervingly from the water and pulls Sam in. Marie cuts the engine through her stream of profanity and turns the wheel towards where Sam went under, trying to avoid clipping him with the motor.

"Don't go in, Dean!" she says just as he's stripping off his shirt. "You're male; she'll take you too! Wait for the kelpie! DO NOT LOWER ANCHOR!" With a quick pound of feet and an inhuman leap she is headfirst in the water.

"Damn it!" he says vainly, and punches the seat. He watches the surface of the water for any break, but there is none. He starts to count to sixty.

Meanwhile, Marie's water-breathing spell has kicked in, and her nose, mouth, and eyes all seem as milky white as the Fainean's. She follows the woman fey closely, though the faerie is dragging Sam under quicker and quicker. She summons a burst of reserve energy to momentarily blind the Fainean with octopus ink, the most water-related piece of magic she can think of, and seizes Sam, kissing him forcefully to give him breath.

It's a race against Dean's counting to get away from the Fainean. She pushes Sam up first, panting in the water as Dean says "sixty" before pulling him up over the side of the boat.

"She's angry," Marie gasps. "Get ready, because she'll send the kelpie – " and she is back under water before Dean can say anything, pulled helplessly by the water horse. Sam is already coughing up what water was in his lungs and scrambling for the bridle.

"Give me that," Dean says, "and sit down. Be ready to get out of here in a hurry." Sam nods, still coughing, and Dean peeks over the side, careful to avoid the Fainean. If he didn't believe in faeries before, he does now, and suddenly there Marie is, water and leaves, leaping over nothing and holding onto the horse's mane. He throws out the bridle. She catches it. In the moment before it touches the dark horse's neck, their eyes meet and she throws him an iron bracelet. Then she and the kelpie are underneath again and Dean knows he's bait for the Fainean just like she was bait for the kelpie and all they have to do now is wait.

He cocks his gun and puts on the bracelet.


	8. fattened by the love they need

"You'll never escape now," the Dark Knight says to Marie from his thorny throne. "Those boys you're with, they'll soon leave you for dead. Time passes differently here, you know." She smiles at him, and it is more than a snarl than anything. She's heard much about this Dark Knight and the way he came to power – protecting a woman, or a pixie, or something. Stories differ in the telling, but all involve lies, murder, and the eerily tall, eerily beautiful blond king. His returning smile is silky, sultry, like a cat with the cream and the canary too. Grudgingly, she admits she likes him, despite being his captive.

"It doesn't pass oddly for me," she retorts. "I'm different." The Dark Knight laughs softly, the sound echoing up Marie's spine.

"Oh, Ciadhrenne. Everyone says that, and everyone is wrong." He looks at her deeply, softly, terribly. "That's what we make them believe, my pet." The magic infusing the air is making it easier to hear thoughts, and so instead of letting him read her mind and learn her secret prematurely, she slowly channels her energy into her bonds, making them over-dried and brittle – even more so than the branches from which they are constructed.

"Why do you call me Ciadhrenne, my lord? The word means _runner_, and I have not run." The Dark Knight smiles, shows his dove-white teeth with a perverse sort of pride. He _is_ lovely.

"Not yet, my pet, but you will. And when you do?" He dismounts the throne and walks to the birch trunk to which she is tethered. "I shall catch you." Marie grins evilly as he presses up against her, raw and sexual in all the right places. The Dark Knight is well known for his love of human women and his prowess in human beds, and she pretends to watch him hungrily as he ghosts over her lips. "You're mine," he affirms softly, long fingers at her jaw. She closes her eyes and offers her lips up to him, intentionally vulnerable. As his lips come relentlessly down on hers, she breaks the branches holding her wrists and wraps her arms around his neck – sliding a thin iron file down his spine. He roars with the burning pain.

With the pressing problem of a witch where he thought he had a human woman, it doesn't take the Dark Knight long to free her with enough apology that she heals the burns on his neck and back.

"I'd stay for a while," she says good-naturedly to him before they leave, still relishing what of the kiss she'd managed to enjoy, "but I have two relatively important gentlemen at the surface waiting for me." The Dark Knight merely inclines his head and offers her a lock of his hair, potent for scrying and for calling him to her aid. In outwitting an enemy, Marie makes an ally.

By the time they reach the surface of the lake, spinning through labyrinthine tunnels and over delicate crystalline bridges, Marie is comfortable enough to jab at him with an elbow before she leaves.

"By the way, I told you time wouldn't pass differently for me." He merely smiles enigmatically and beckons to the still-bridled kelpie who is waiting, docile, in the reeds next to the edge.

"The best of luck in your quest," he says softly. "The Courts are with you." She nods, kisses his pale, cool cheek, and mounts the silent kelpie. He takes her to the side of the boat without any trouble, and Sam watches her alight with a sort of reverent awe for both her and the fey from which she has come.

"You made it," Dean says gruffly – as if he is disappointed to see her alive. She nods and slips the bridle off of the kelpie, watching closely as the water horse slinks back to the Dark Knight.

"He's on our side when we need him," she says calmly as the Dark Knight fades back into the shadowy underbrush. "And the Fainean is headed back to a natural lake. She and the kelpie won't be able to harm anyone unless they're called by blood." Dean makes a mildly accepting face and Marie uses a Spongebob Squarepants towel to dry her hair before turning to check on Sam. "Dean, will you take us home?" He nods coarsely and Marie takes Sam's pulse, smiling at him reassuringly.

"Hey," he croaks out. "You're wet." She grins and shifts him so his head is resting on her lap, pillowed softly on her crossed legs.

"News flash, big dubya – you're wet too." He smiles, more at the nickname than the response, and closes his eyes.

"Thank you for saving me," he says softly, almost unheard over the roar of the motors. She smiles and strokes his wet hair.

"Thank you for trusting me," she responds, and looks out over the horizon as Dean steers the boat back home.

Sam is tucked warmly into a big bed with a cup of hot chicken broth down his throat before Marie even thinks of taking off her own wet clothes. When she finally gets out of her shower and into dry, warm, comfortable clothing, a tracksuit and tank top, Dean is asleep on the sofa, drooling on the leather. She smiles gently, covers him with a faux fur blanket, tucks a pillow under his head, and debates for a moment whether or not to kiss his cheek. She laughs silently at her own folly, flicks on the radio next to the arm chair, and picks up a book.

But the kelpie isn't through with the Winchesters or Marie. He's slinking onto the deck, shifted into a young man naked from the waist up. It takes him no time to jimmy open the door without a sound. By the time she notices him, his knife is already at Dean's throat.

"Move and I'll kill him where he stands," the dark-eyed kelpie says, deep velvet voice washing over Marie. There is magic in the voice, compulsory magic that makes her arms twitch still. But this kelpie doesn't know about Marie, or he wouldn't be here.

"Why take him?" she asks softly. "Why not me? I'm the one you want, the one you lost. Why don't you have me?" The dark eyes smile evilly.

"One life is as good as another." Her eyes locked on the kelpie, heart pounding in her throat for Dean, who is staring at her balefully, the gunshot takes all three of them by surprise.

"Then let it be yours," Sam whispers from the balcony as the kelpie falls to the floor. "Let it be yours."


	9. felt the ground and looked up high

The aftermath of shooting the kelpie is surprisingly minimal in regards to logistics; the three musketeers dump the body back in the lake and Marie sends an acorn message to the Dark Knight explaining everything. Before hitting the road again they receive his response, that the Fainean will be punished for letting the kelpie loose and the kelpie's body burned. Then they're gone, off to other hunts and for Dean and Marie to resolve their differences – or at least for Dean to stop being sore at her for letting the kelpie get to him in the first place.

Just being in the same room with him makes her throat close up with the discomfort. It's his distaste for her – it's palpable, tangy and metallic, like blood in her mouth. It is slick, too, slip sliding over any exposed skin. She starts wearing long sleeves. It's not quite hatred, but it is too close. It interferes with their hunts, with her magic, with Sam's Sight. Since the day she realized what it is, she's been blocked from reading emotions – one of her most potent powers. It's everywhere. And it's making things worse.

Rationally, her mind explains the reasoning behind his loathing. She's the unknown; she's taken control in a place where he was king. She brought him bad news, ruined the future he thought he could have, let him become hostage to a fey. But emotionally, her heart just aches for his detestation of her.

"Whatever you think I am, I'm not," she wants to scream. "I've never hated you. I've always loved you."

It's this last sentiment which bothers her the most, forces her entire body into tension and terror when he's around. She tries, tries so very hard not to love him. She fights against the natural instincts of her heart and body, rebels with every fiber of her being to keep from smiling when he makes a joke or looks her way. But looking in those ineffable green eyes, watching him walk or drink or laugh or shoot, makes her knees turn to jelly and her fingers curl into fists.

He's lovely and she knows it. He's lovely and strong and virile, and the irrational part of her who is, in fact, a _woman,_ aches for his protection.

After three months and seven hunts of waking him with only a steaming mug of coffee beside his bed, though, he can actually hold a conversation with her without completely insulting her femininity. (Sam is incredibly relieved; living with them suddenly becomes _much_ easier.) Somehow, though, she knows things are going to change.

It's on a cold, rainy morning in Pennsylvania that they catch the first sight of the yellow-eyed demon and his war. Marie does the grocery shopping and is today in pink and green Wellington boots Dean tried bravely not to laugh at, plodding through the aisles with a sort of bored look on her face. Her bangs are pinned to the top of her head for comfort, and it (surprisingly) makes her look drastically different – which proves to be her lifesaver. She's pushing the cart past the Health and Beauty department when she catches a glimpse of yellow-gold eyes in a middle-aged man nearby. She whispers a spell against possession and walks on, not quite stupid enough to take him on her own. It's enough to know he's here in Gettysburg, that he's tracked them this far, that the war is soon to begin. She pays for the groceries and leaves quickly.

It's hard to keep the panic out of her voice as she walks through the hotel door; fear of the demon and the upcoming fight are muddling her thoughts and rendering her magic useless. Dean can't look at her; her pupils blown wide in terror and lips swollen from nervous nibbling remind him of something far more carnal than rational fear. He looks to the window as Sam takes control. Sam wraps his gigantic windbreaker around her shoulders and puts a hot mug of tea in her hands.

"Hey," he whispers. "Hey, it's going to be okay. We can beat this thing. We have each other, remember? We have you." She nods, feeding on his calming energy. Dean looks back to the two of them, and there is a look in his eye and an aura around him that makes her heart clench again.

"Sam, Marie, come here. Look at this." There is an overly ominous storm cloud dwarfing the others overhead, and it has a potently black color – unnatural against the other grey clouds.

"Oh, dear Goddess," Marie whispers, worming her way between the boys and looking to the sky. She inhales sharply. "This is it," she says, voice eerily soft. "This is the beginning." Her trembles are lessening, but Dean still has an insane urge to wrap her close and keep her from being afraid. Instead of turning to him, though, she slips a gentle hand in one of Sam's warm paws. "We have to call Missouri." Sam nods, looks at Dean, and breathes in deeply.

"Okay," he says. "Here we go."

"Battle stations, people," Dean comments dryly, and Marie giggles nervously. With three words, he somehow alleviates her fear, makes this upcoming battle less of a terror and more of a war. She's not afraid of war, just outright murder.

In the back of her mind, she can hear the warning against more emotional attachment to him than she already has. There's a possibility for sacrifice here, and if she has to give him up in the end ahead, she _can't_ let it kill her too.

She lifts up a silent prayer to the Goddess and hopes it's enough.


	10. a photograph from where you are

They park their cars side by side to compare arsenals, filling the tourist parking lot with weapons. They have a veritable army of hunters, drawn to the cause through John, or Dean, or even Marie. Ellen and Jo, Ash, Missouri, and many more are there; they are ready to support the Winchesters and their witch. They're all exchanging ammunition, fitting packs, belts, and holsters, and one of Marie's friends who makes bulletproof vests is handing them out, complete with supernatural modifications. Marie's is laced with a few thin sheets of rock on one side and gently warming heat packs on the other to represent earth and fire, while her arms are exposed to the air and a bottle of water strapped to her side. Equipped with each element, giving her a larger range of magic, she pins her hair up with an elaborate series of cedar and mahogany pins to establish the channel through which her energy will flow. Holy water is everywhere, lining coats and jackets and clothing so that when the vials are broken the demons will be injured. To the side, Sam is commanding a handful of psychics about their powers, and on the other side Dean is explaining that the majority of the opposing fighters will not be demons, but turned humans. It is a bizarre sort of base camp, but it suits.

Marie searches out and packs in her pockets little tidbits of jerky and hard candies, trying to give herself reserves of energy. She asks Sam to find some more for her if he has the time, but it is Dean who pulls up beside her with bags in his hands.

"Marie?" She whirls, surprised to see him.

"Dean? I didn't expect to see you – Sam said he'd – "

"I had him stay back. I brought two kinds, if you wanted to choose." She smiles and takes the bags, pushing the jerky into the pockets all over her vest. He grabs her hands and holds her still, something urgent in his green eyes. "I have to talk to you." She looks a little worried, but stops all preparation for the moment; he looks like he's about to fall over.

"Okay, what can I do for you?" Her concern is palpable, but not overwhelming.

"Sam says you don't hate me." She's taken by surprise that he even had to _ask_ Sam.

"Dean, good – of course I don't hate you. What I hate are yellow-eyed demons who kill parents needlessly. That's what I hate. Hell, I don't even dislike you." She smiles a little wistfully. "I had just assumed your perception of me was totally ruined from the start. Giving you the news about Cassie, acting the hero on the boat, nearly getting you killed afterwards – I sort of set myself up for you disliking me. It's not a big deal, really." She tries to go back to secreting away the food, but he stills her arms again, pulls her almost flush against him.

"Yes, yes it is a big deal. It is a very big deal. I don't want you thinking you can't count on me, especially when we're out there in the middle of it all. This is a big deal because it's a _big goddamn war_." She smiles, and he can see the tears in her eyes. Then she takes a deep breath, closes her eyes, and lifts up onto the balls of her feet to kiss his cheek with all the tenderness she's shown Sam since the beginning. She pats him on the chest twice and looks down at her feet, clean scent of her hair wafting towards Dean's nose.

"I know, Dean." She looks up at him, blue eyes almost too beautiful, and tries to smile. "I've always known that."

They lock eyes and Dean forgets to breathe, slowly losing control until he is dizzied by the power of her trust. When did she stop being a nuisance? When did she start being a friend? And what will happen if he loses her?

The Dark Knight's appearance breaks their concentration.

"You called," he says softly, and Marie's attention slides to him. He is as lovely as ever, and Dean can hear her breath catch in her throat. He pulls away. Perhaps this is for the best.

She watches the fey warily, drinking in the armor and the aura alike. He gives an elaborate bow and she nods, silently thanking him.

"I have gifts for you," he announces suddenly, taking careful, deliberate steps towards her, his golden eyes searing into her skin. "Something to keep you sharp. Wars like these used to have many wizards among their fighters. It is that power I have brought you." He holds up two arm cuffs, one silver and one gold. He slides up near her, too close for comfort, painfully reminiscent of when she was his captive. The cuffs slide up her arms to where they rest between tricep and bicep, the cool metal skimming over goose-bumpy skin. "They have the power to concentrate your energy and direct it to where it truly needs to go." She shivers under his touch. "And this," he adds, pulling a silver necklace out of the air, "is so I can always find you."

Marie gasps. On the chain dangles her mother's cross – the one lost when she died.

The last time she saw the Knight his eyes were green.

The Dark Knight grins ferally, and she knows he's not really _her_ Dark Knight. The battle begins.


	11. hold the balance if you can't look down

Caught in the endless repetition of dodge-duck-whirl-fire, Dean is throwing everything he has at the oncoming legions. Every misguided emotion becomes a bullet through the head of an enemy; every irrational fear a slice from a thrice-blessed blade. He's a whirlwind of fury and hatred and possessed misery, obliterating everything in his path with little discrimination. The other hunters know to stay out of his way. He catches a glimpse of the tenacious Jo, currently kicking two captors in the faces while struggling against the grip of a third. Effortlessly he picks them off, earning a nod of thanks and nothing more. They have their own priorities now, and if there ever could have been something between them, it is gone, never to be recovered. He looks for Sam and Marie; Jo points behind him. His own nod of thanks is nearly lost in his zeal.

Sam's powers, once a source of terror and uncertainty, are coming to a positive fruition. The telekinesis is proving useful in a pinch, though draining, and his visions pass with more detail and much less pain. In a recent – and hastily developed – addition to his potency, he exchanges brief but informative thoughts with Marie when he can, who is facing her own attackers elsewhere on the battlefield. They beam snippets of warnings, updates, anything useful about the battle or surroundings, and hope it helps. Sam seems a superman, a colossus on the field, taking every threat out faster than any of the others on their side. The rest of the psychics are congregated behind him, manipulating attackers, pushing people out of the way, and screaming unintelligibly – presumably to distract the psychics on the other side. Dean makes his way to Sam's side, taking advantage of his little brother's protection to reload his guns.

"How does it look?" Dean asks curtly. Sam's jaw is squeezed so tightly shut Dean's afraid he might break it.

"Not good. Nobody has seen him yet. We had so little time to strategize – Dean, we might lose." Dean looks him straight in the face and claps his shoulder.

"Not an option," he says, and then he is away, back in the routine of dodge-duck-whirl-fire. He cleaves a rough path through the fire and the hatred and the magic, headed for Missouri.

The stream of the enemy seems endless. All over the field, the place so many men fought and bled and died over a century before, demons are roaring. The spells Marie wove to capture them are working, holding them powerless, but the screams give the others more reason to fight. So much of this battle is wrong, Dean thinks as he shoots another enemy. So much of it has to do with evil, hatred, revenge. The battlefield will be dangerous after dark for ages afterward.

The irony of this killing field hits him in full force; he paid a little attention to the history books John bought him. A century and a half ago, two sides of one country met here. Now, the psychics are fighting each other, one side headed by a witch and the other by a demon. It's sick. This land should never have been fought on again, should never have been used for this evil purpose. It almost makes him retch.

But there is no time for that as he meets Missouri, camped out under a mostly hidden tree, tending the sick. He asks a silent question and she nods, pressing a sachet of herbs to an injured shoulder.

"Most everyone will be fine. These vests are gonna save their lives," she says slowly, deliberately. "And Dean?" He looks at her expectantly. "If ever you were lookin' for a chance to curse, this would be it. Now get on and check with that lady of yours." He's long past embarrassment for any secrets she reads from him, but he shoots her a familiarly annoyed look before turning towards Marie, who is standing on a tall outcropping nearby. He makes good time jogging over the open ground, taking advantage of a relatively clear back road. It's as he's looking back in Missouri's direction that he sees the demon, standing in the shadows.

He's gathering energy, eyes focused on Marie. Dean surges forward, his eyes, too, on the lovely witch. She is chanting incessantly, watching the trapped demons rage in their cages. She's going to get rid of them, he realizes, hearing the Latin leave her tongue. And then he understands. She's seen the yellow-eyed demon. They're in a race to see who can finish the spell first. She's going to sacrifice herself to save the rest. Dean waits until the last word leaves her lips, until fifty simultaneous screams rend the air, until every demon is back in hell, until their host bodies crumple to the grass. Every demon but one.

Dean lets his final sight be beautiful Marie, dirt and blood staining her face as he leaps in front of the demon's attack. Her eyes lock on his as he falls, and he sees the terror and the trust and the thanks before he blacks out from the pain.


	12. give me the words and i'll say them

Marie doesn't have time to scream as Dean crumples before her; she throws her last burst of energy at the surprised demon, incinerating him where he stands. It's the only spell she knows to kill a demon completely, and her body sears with the pain and effort. His roaring reverberates in her ears, and for a moment she thinks he'll just overcome her. But when she's done, the demon is forever gone, and his hold on the turned psychics is gone too. The battle ends abruptly, everything stopped short. Everything but Marie.

She throws herself to the ground beside Dean, her breathing ragged and broken but her soul too determined to give up, and listens to his heart. He's still alive, thank God; the protection spell she wove into the vest absorbed some of the fatal shock. With the last bit of energy in her body, chewing jerky from her pockets frantically, she puts her hands to his chest and sends a short, final burst of healing power through him. If there's any internal bleeding, at least it's stopped. She, too, blacks out.

Sam finds them in a heap together, barely breathing. He picks Marie up in his arms, her head soft upon his shoulder, and directs the others to lift Dean carefully onto a stretcher. Jaw clenched, eyes soft, he picks his way along the rocks, headed for the Impala. As he lays her in the front seat, Dean safe in the back, she stirs and lifts her head a little.

"Dean," she says. "I knew you'd save me." She's delusional, but the delusions make him smile. Now he understands what made his brother choose the Impala over her car to take her back to the hotel those very many months ago. He shuts all the doors to the car, harangues Jo and Ellen until they help him drive the Miata to the hotel, and sets his pair of invalids up in the room, tucked into their separate beds.

Marie wakes after just a couple of hours, and is showered and changed in an hour more. But Dean, far from looking better, seems to be doing much worse. Marie watches his face intently before looking at Sam frankly, her own patented 'bitch-face' so very evident.

"Sam, I need you to go out and get as much disgusting junk food as you can find. Twinkies, Swiss Cake Rolls, et cetera. And energy bars, too – PowerBars especially work. This – " she gestures to Dean – "is going to take a while, and I'm going to need as much quick energy as I can." Sam nods. "And Sam?" He turns to her, fighting tears. She hugs him close, fingers closing tight around his shirt. "I'm going to fix him." He nods and kisses the top of her head.

"Oh, Marie. I know you will. Just – do me a favor, will you? Get him healthy enough to move, and then I want to head for Kansas for the rest. It's – it's time for us to be home." Marie nods.

When Sam returns, Dean's bloodstained shirt has been changed and Marie's hands are pressed hard against his chest. Her brow is furrowed with intense concentration, and for a moment Sam just wants to watch her work. She accepts the PowerBar he hands her and keeps one hand on Dean as she eats.

"So, what are you doing?" Sam asks. She smiles and swallows.

"When I put my hands on him, I can see what's wrong in my mind's eye. Then I take my energy and knowledge of the body to sort of rewind the damage and put the body back together. I basically start from the inside and work my way out."

"And it uses your energy?" She nods and crumples the energy bar wrapper. He takes it.

"I'm the basis for all the energy I use to heal him. That's why I have to keep eating." She puts her hands on Dean's chest again. Sam watches intently as a white light moves from her fingers to Dean's body, then forms stringy filaments. With her fingers she moves them, weaving them in together as she mends each torn cell of Dean's body. It's miracle work, really, and that fact does not elude the younger brother. So while Marie works, Sam prays.

By the time Dean is healed enough to move, Marie has lost three pounds and too much sleep. Sam calls Sarah so there's a spare driver, and the warm way she and Marie bond is heartwarming. They prop Dean up in the Miata, his head elevated and his breathing slightly labored, and head for a house in Wichita Sam finagled over the past two days so they're back on Kansas soil, back home. It's mostly a comfort zone thing, but the energies are freer there too, not tied up in the ghastliness the demons left behind. The work goes much faster.

In less than a week, Marie finishes. She's a size smaller, even with all the junk she's been eating, and the circles under her eyes are terrible, but Dean is just like new.

Except for the fact that he won't wake up, and she's terrified she's failed.

"I've done all I can do, Sam," she explains, wide-eyed and hurting. "I've run scans over every inch of his body. But I can only fix physical damage. If it's psychological, I can't do a thing." He nods, says he understands, and hugs her, but the chair he sets up next to Dean's bed has no air of permanence about it. Marie, too, is hopeful it will only last a few days.

She's the only one who remembers the promise she made to Dean at the beginning of this mess, but it still matters. She tucks Dean's battle shirt in her bag as she packs – just in case.


	13. we are being beaten, some are being born

When it comes upon her she's not sure what to do. All around her there is sorrow and melancholy and all those things she knows Dean would have hated to see. All the times he called her weak and sissy and too much of a girl for this hunt and this job and this life. And she wants to cry, wants to weep until her tears blur the road more than the rain does, wants to scream and shout and shoot something. Because she did what she told him she would do and it was the worst mistake of her entire life.

She sat on his bed, brushed a cool hand over his forehead, watched the eyes behind closed lids flicker back and forth drowsily. She pressed an unasked for kiss to his fingers and to his palm and let one tear fall onto his clean white shirt.

"You don't have to leave," Sam told her, leaning against the doorframe. When she turned, her blue eyes were broken.

"Yes, I do," she whispered. "I told him I would." And then, with a half-smile and a long hug, she was out the door, bags into the Miata and course set for some house in Texas where a great big cowboy cousin would tell her she was beautiful and had grown up fine, like some filly.

She makes it so sadly to that house in Texas, spends six months living right next door in one of the great big trailers her cousin owns. Ropes and rides with the big boys until they invite her for a drink and fight for her honor when some jackass questions it. She tries not to think of Dean or Sam or their stupid, archaic, unwarranted ways of stepping in front of anything thrown at her. Manages that six months without scrying him, without pulling that bloodstained shirt out of the back of her closet and holding it so tight it's like she's there with him. She's just so sure he's woken up, moved on, started up his hunts again because what else does he have to do? And maybe Sam and Sarah are settling, wondering when Dean will come home, worrying the way Sam and Sarah do. Nobody calls, so everything must be all right.

Hot spring turns into hotter summer, fades into warm fall. It's raining in Texas and pouring in Kansas, and she tries to believe she's not working the weather so it's the same wherever she and he are – or where he last was, where she last saw him. But six months after she left she can't hold on any more and looks into a silver bowl filled with clear water hoping all she'll see is her reflection.

He's still asleep.

She packs the same clothes she wore then into the same bags she hunted with, throws them into the trunk of her car loudly enough that her cowboy cousin comes barreling out of his house to see what the matter is. She hugs him, kisses him, cries on him and says "I've got to, it's for love," and drives away headed east towards Oklahoma City on I-40 and north on I-35 with her heart set on Wichita and her boot glued to the gas pedal. She doesn't stop for the whole six hours, just changes the music in her tape player over and over and over until it's blasting miserable instrumentals and she feels just like she did leaving him six months ago.

"Jesus, Marie," Sam says as he opens the door but she just blasts through and up the stairs.

"You should have called," she shouts before disappearing into Dean's room. She locks the door and looks at him with tears in her eyes.

"You _bastard_," she whispers to him, ignoring the chair next to his bed as she sits next to him. Places his hand on her lap, covers his big fingers with her slender ones, fiddles with his ring and shakes her head through the tears. "I did what I was supposed to do. I left after the job was done, after you'd been fixed by my hands. After I burned ten pounds of body fat reworking your fucking insides. But you couldn't wake up, you couldn't do the one thing to help yourself. I went to _Texas_, Dean, to Amarillo where I was so close but so far away and I thought you'd be done and off with another damn job. I spent six _months_ keeping you out of my head but I can't now because I love you, Dean, I love you and I won't let you sleep forever. I'll give my life for you to finish yours, don't you think I won't." The tears come fresh, come free as he breathes in and out, soft and slow. "I'm so sorry, Dean," she whispers to him, face lifting to the sky. "I shouldn't have left until you woke. I'm sorry, it was a mistake, I won't do it again. I'm not leaving until you're awake, Dean. I won't leave until you're completely better. And if you want me to, I'll go, and I won't come back, but Dean, I love you now and forever and if ever you want me to stay you're going to have to tell me that because I've been listening to your silence forever and forever is too long." She kisses his forehead gently, warmly, perpetually. "Forever is too long."

His eyes flutter open.


	14. follow my heart again epilogue

They're dancing in a bar, sweet and slow. This is, by far, the best part of their job; pretending to meet by chance is largely unnecessary, but it lends a certain kind of mystique to their love life – and everyone needs a little spice once in a while. His hands skim her waist, the perfectly proportioned curves of her hips; his lips brush her hair, silky-smooth and smelling of lavender. The smile she gives is enough to betray just how happy she is, and how close they really are.

She looks up at him, meets his eyes with a flash of seduction and a slow, warm kind of love. Her fingers brush over his hair – recently cut, and bristly-soft – before their lips meet. Just another anonymous couple in another nameless bar, they dance until the song ends, then he grabs her coat and purse and pushes her out the door with a smile to rival the Devil's. They live for this job, for this wham, bam, thank you, ma'am way of dealing with things. Fast cars and dark bars, guns blazing in each hand, and life on the road save a night or two in Lawrence for Christmas with Sam and Sarah. They're the best hunters in the business because they love it so damn much.

He pushes her up against the passenger side of the Impala, the curve of her back fitting up with the curves of the car. His kisses are rough, demanding, much reminiscent of their first (and second and third and fourth) kiss. Broad strokes of warm tongue, fingers caught in clothing, body against body against car.

"I love you," he whispers in her ear.

"I know," she whispers back. "Take me home," she continues. He kisses her once more before unlocking the Impala door.

In the car, she slides up next to his body, a gangster's moll and Sandra Dee all in the same body. Her breath is hot against his ear as she whispers all the things she knows he wants to hear. For tonight, the job can wait.


End file.
